


Ice

by quartile



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Blow Jobs, Ice, Ice Play, M/M, Post-Retcon Meteor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-08
Updated: 2017-04-08
Packaged: 2018-10-16 04:26:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,232
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10563681
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quartile/pseuds/quartile
Summary: Short and sweet. It is what it is.--“There’s got to be rooms below this level,” you say. “We’d be more comfortable underground. That’s how we got through the hottest days on Alternia.”Dave says, “You know what we need?” He sits up, peels his tank top off, flops back on the mattress. “Son, what we need is ice.”





	

**Karkat: Sweat.**

“Do you hear that?”

Dave props open the door to the meteor’s surface with a rock. “I don’t hear anything,” he says. He picks up another hunk of space debris and uses it to hold open the door to the time-out room. “There, that should bring some cooler air in.”

You say, “We should be hearing something. That’s the problem. What happened to the big droning fans?”

Dave flops backward on the mattress. He lifts up his tank top to wipe sweat off his face. “They have to kick in eventually.”

In the past—B.G., Before Game—it would have taken several strong trolls to separate you from your favorite turtleneck. Turns out, all it takes is a climate control malfunction. The bulky pullover lies on the floor along with your jeans. You’re in a black t-shirt and crab boxers, and you’re still sticky-hot.

“There’s got to be rooms below this level,” you say. “We’d be more comfortable underground. That’s how we got through the hottest days on Alternia.”

“No. No moving,” says Dave. “You want to lie still, like this. The more worked up you get, the worse it is.”

The still air grows warmer. The currents of Paradox Space bring no relief.

Dave says, “You know what we need?”

“Fans that fan,” you say. “A functioning HVAC system. Dream Bubble Equius to thwack it in a few places with a wrench.”

“We need sweet tea,” says Dave. “We need iced tea and pitchers of lemonade and Cokes from the icebox at the service station. We need the walk-in fridge at the fancy steakhouse. We need the entire freezer aisle at the Piggly Wiggly.” He sits up, peels his tank top off, flops back on the mattress. “Son, what we need is ice.”

“Gee, wish I’d known. I just unloaded my only case of imaginary frozen water cubes at our last imaginary rest stop.” 

Dave frowns. “Maybe we could make some. I don’t need much.” 

He decaptchalogues a whole bunch of crap from his sylladex. Out falls some toy-like contraption with a long blade. “Yessss,” he says, picking it up. “Come to papi.” He adjusts his grip and gives it a swing. A gust of arctic air follows the blade’s path. “Give it up for the Snoop Dogg Snow Cone Machete.” 

It’s clearly the product of a deranged mind. “To think I ever tolerated you throwing shade at Homes Smell Ya Later,” you say. “Why don’t you make yourself useful and wave that around so we can cool off.” 

“Nah, I have a better idea,” he says. He decaptchalogues a bottle of water. Sets it on the floor. Takes aim and sweeps the Snoop Dogg Snow Cone Machete right through the middle. The bottle explodes into ice cubes. “Nice,” says Dave with an approving smirk, collecting the ice in a coffee mug. 

He tosses an ice cube at you. “Suck it,” he says. 

“Rude.” You press it to your forehead. 

“Karkat. Put it in your mouth. You’ll feel better.” He demonstrates. His ice cube clacks against his teeth as he rolls it around. His eyes never leave your face.

“What are you staring at?” you grumble.

“C’mere.”

You grimace. “Too hot to move.”

“Come here.” He leans in toward you. Frosty lips press against yours. His tongue eases into your mouth and you gasp from the cold. Dave’s icy tongue feels foreign, but so welcome, cooling you with every lick and tease. 

He breaks off the kiss. Takes another ice cube and rubs it between his hands. “Shh, lie back,” he says. “Close your eyes.” Frigid fingertips walk along your neck and you nearly knee him in the gut. 

“Ahh, cold, cold,” you squeak.

He traces your face with the ice cube. Every touch makes you shudder. Then his lips are on yours again, but just barely. This time, he holds himself just over you, letting you lap and taste and explore. He sighs as you lick and coax him open. 

“Like it?” he whispers.

“Uh huh,” you say. He sucks on your lower lip, then pulls away again. He slips another ice cube in his mouth and hikes your shirt up, exposing your chest and grubscars. He presses an ear to you, humming to harmonize with your involuntary growls and purrs. The next thing you feel is the chilled tip of his tongue drawing long, slow lines from your throat to your lower belly. Your bulge trembles in its sheath. He ends each stroke at your waistline, then starts again from your throat, moving down.

“Good?” he asks.

In reply, you take his hand and push it against your bulge. He says, “You are still _way_ too hot,” and tugs your boxers off. 

And then he—this is the part you’ll play and replay later in your mind, it was so—

Then he wraps cold lips and tongue around your bulge and takes you in. Down, up, around, lapping at the lashing tip. Exquisitely cold. Your sensitive flesh is pebbled with chills. “Dave, oh fuck, please—” you can’t get away and you can’t get enough. 

Dave wraps one hand around the base of your bulge while he strokes your nook with the other. “Who made you so beautiful, babe, who made you so good,” he murmurs, words of nonsense and praise that send jolts into your bulge. You can guess what’s coming and you’re already shivering hard, but you’re still not ready when the iced muscle of his tongue licks at your nook. You feel it flex and point, painting icy lines, then fucking sweetly into you.

“Dave, Dave, please—” you arch off the mattress, gripping the blanket. You’re pushing yourself into his face. “Please...”

“Tell me what you want, just tell me, let me hear you say it.” His voice is urgent and sultry and low and hungry.

“Let me, please, oh fuck, let me, let me in,” you pant.

“What do you want? Say it.”

“Please, let me thrust into you, I need you, I want you,” you’re begging and stammering. 

“You have me, baby,” he says, “you so have me.” He guides your bulge between his lips and you thrust and rock, feeling the chill of his mouth and throat, feeling his blunt teeth graze you and his icy tongue grow warm as he sucks and licks until you flood.

\--

When you recover enough to remember your name, you push him down onto the mattress. With ice in your mouth, you lap at one of his bud-like nipples as he squirms, then draw a wet path all the way to his dick. He sucks in a breath as you take him into your mouth all at once. A stream of encouraging babble pours out of him as he traces your ear with his fingertip and clutches your hair. “Yes, fuck yes, like that, Karkat you are so good, so good...”

And it’s a thrill—a thrill to know you’re having this effect on him, to hear the sighs and moans he no longer tries to suppress around you, to hear him say your name like an incantation of gratitude. “Don’t stop, babe,” he says, head turned to the side on a pillow. “Right there, I’m so close,” he’s vocalizing needy, delicious little sounds, his hips buck and jerk, “babe, love, Karkat...” 

\--

**Dave: Flip HVAC switch back on.**

Seriously. He can be so gullible sometimes.


End file.
